I suppose some would call it a "mid-life crisis." Others’ might label it, less kindly, "temporary insanity" or, as my father simply stated, "doing something stupid." I would prefer to think of it as something I just felt like doing. I honestly cannot pinpoint my personal reason for engaging in this craziness. One might propose lofty purposes such as: reaffirming that I was alive, the hope of feeling (at least briefly) exhilarated or, perhaps, just to recapture the feelings we have in youth when we first get turned upside-down on a roller coaster or at the hands of a really strong relative. That unique mix of fear and excitement that comes from doing something "edgy." I can personally surmise that just as rising testosterone levels cause adolescent males to engage in self-destructive behaviors, when the testosterone levels fall in those of us past our prime, we similarly do some pretty "stupid" things, as well.

The inspiration for jumping off a 400 foot high bridge in Africa with a pregnant rubber band attached to my feet is really unimportant. The only fact of relevance is that I actually did it. To understand just how relevant me "doing something stupid" actually is, you need to know a bit about me. I feel like I am standing up at an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting when I write: "I am Ron and I have O.C.P.D." (Obligatory "Hi, Ron!" arises among the readers) Those of us afflicted with obsessive-compulsive personality disorder (as an aside, what makes this a "disorder" anyway? A question I really would like answered but, in this context, it is entirely beside the point) just don’t do things like this. We like - strive for, in fact - routines and sameness. We like quiet activities, everything in its place and, above all else, try to keep our adrenalin levels low. Picture Melvin Udall (Jack Nicholson) in "As Good As It Gets" and you can visualize a caricature of people with O.C.P.D. I am not quite as bad as Melvin (despite what certain people might argue) but you get the general picture.

In July, 2006, I flew to Africa for a two-week holiday. This, in and of itself, was a major step in challenging my O.C.P.D. I went solo - another gold star for we sufferers. I definitely wanted to see Victoria Falls during my excursion and I made it the first stop of my itinerary. While examining the attractions available at this little side trip (most of the time I wanted to be "in the bush" viewing and photographing wildlife), I ran across the information describing the bungee jump at the Falls. I made the mistake of casually mentioning the jump to my office staff and was met with the fateful words: "Oh, you would never do that! Not in a million years."

Now, gentle reader, another thing about me - aside from my obvious psychiatric disabilities - is that I do not deal with challenges well. If you tell me "you can’t do that," I am most likely to give it a good shot. It has been that way all my life. I do not consider "you can’t do that" to be words of advise; I view them as challenges to be accepted and overcome. Don’t wave a cape in a bull’s face, don’t tug on Superman’s cape and never - ever - tell me "you won’t do that." It may be a male thing, in general, but - for the Albright male - it’s a test of will. Like a post-hypnotic suggestion, we may not know why we feel compelled to do the thing but we do know we must do the thing. With the office employees listening in (and laughing their fool heads off, I might add), I called the bungee company (+ 27 31 762 2424 in case you are interested) and made my reservation right then and there. Gauntlet dropped - gauntlet accepted.

The remaining few weeks before my departure were an uncomfortable combination of growing choruses of "You’ll chicken out!" which were combined with an uneasy personal feeling that I just might. Like hyenas on the Serengeti who smell blood and bark in unison, the office staff began to sense my growing panic and only picked up the pace of their howls. But, I held firm: "You just wait and see!" was my steady if hollow answer.

Upon arriving at the Zambesi Sun hotel, my preoccupation with actually surviving the journey from America to my first stop in Africa melted away and I was (ever so briefly, mind you) relaxed and excited. I could actually hear the magnificent falls from my room. I didn’t bother to unpack and, instead, scurried along the path - oblivious to any promises I had made or challenges to be met - to see the glorious wonder of nature. I was not disappointed. Victoria Falls - even in July - was full and vigorously flowing. The misty haze thrown up from the violent crashing of water at Devil’s Cataract was already reflecting the artificial rainbow that is its glory when the sun is low in the sky. I felt exhilarated and didn’t mind at all that I was drenched by the spray falling all about me. I was, officially, in Africa and viewing a true marvel of natural beauty and mystery.

Then, in the invigorating chill of the moment, I caught a glimpse of the bridge that crosses the Zambesi River between Zambia and Zimbabwe. I was suddenly cold and was acutely aware of the heartbeat rising in my chest. That was the very bridge that, in less than 24 hours, I was scheduled to jump off. I was immediately given to thoughts of the excuses I could use for not doing this stupid thing. I could say that I slipped on the water-soaked walkway and turned my ankle or twisted my knee and, due to trauma, could not have possibly jumped off a 400 foot bridge. I could say that I was bitten by one of the marauding baboons - there actually was a large family group that hangs out on the walkway there and begs from tourists - and was prohibited from jumping due to the injury. As my mind raced, my pulse quickened and my gut roiled. As quickly as I was enthralled with the beauty of the falls, I was stricken with the reality that I was soon to be (formally) declared insane.

I hastened my retreat from the nearness of my terror and spent a restless night contemplating my impending death. Sure, they boasted at the Internet site that no one had actually died during the bungee jump but, as Disraeli noted: "There are three kinds of lies: lies, damned lies and statistics." Who was there, really, to say there were no accidental deaths? If you fall into the river, you are whisked quickly downstream and eaten by crocodiles. Does anyone really believe the bungee operators would publicize such a tragedy? Wouldn’t they do everything in their powers (and in the secrecy of Africa, governments can cover all sorts of horrors) to hide the fact that a tourist died at an attraction that drew tens of thousands of customers per year? Statistics? I say damned lies and happy crocodiles.

The next morning, I rose early and tried to eat something from the breakfast menu. It was hopeless. I was a couple of hours away from immortality as the first documented death at the Zambesi River bungee jump. I had made provisions to assure that my death could not be covered up (as, undoubtedly, the numerous previous ones had been) by letting the executor of my will know the exact time I would be leaping to my demise. When I asked the concierge how best to get to the bridge he recommended a shuttle the hotel would provide. He explained that, otherwise, I would have to walk the 2 miles unescorted. He strongly cautioned me against this choice since that walk would lead me through a "no man’s land" frequented by local gangs and thieves. As I pondered the choices, the walk clearly seemed the better choice at the time. It would take longer and, with any luck, I just might meet up with the local hoodlums. You see, in my state of mind at that moment, it was a toss-up: dying by crashing into a river at 200 miles per hour and being eaten by wildlife or being accosted by a gang of vandals and having my throat cut with a dull machete. Six of one, half dozen of the other. I would walk and prayed for a swift death, preferably from behind. At least, it would be harder to dispose of the body.

Sadly, at the time, the walk was completely uneventful. Perhaps it was too early for the hoodlums to be on the prowl. Every few yards, I scanned every direction and there was nary a single angry face or gleaming blade to be seen anywhere. I arrived at the bridge and managed, somehow, to climb the rather formidable hill that led to the registration "shack." I was joined by two other intrepid souls, a young couple from Great Britain. It was of note that only the male was planning to make the leap; the female was a much brighter bulb. We signed up, were weighed (our heft in kilograms was written on our hand) and paid our fee. They did not ask for the "Next of Kin" which, undoubtedly, was an oversight. We were instructed to proceed to the suicide site which was located at the midpoint of the bridge.

As I did my best to feign confidence and manly courage, I strode the 200 yards or so from the Zambian side of the bridge to the jump off point, so to speak. All along the walk, I was harangued by young men selling everything from zebra tail woven bracelets to hand-carved (undoubtedly in China) wooden elephants. The salesmen were relentless and only made the rising sensation of nausea more palpable. As every good tourist is instructed, I strode quickly and confidently to the tiny shed, ignoring the sales pitches whizzing by my ears, where I would be sent off to my self-selected seppuku - Zambesi style.

At the hut, I was the first to be prepared for the plunge. The gentleman that did the preparation and instruction was very professional. Sensing my anxiety (the beads of sweat and dilated pupils surely gave me away), he gallantly tried to distract my thoughts from the impending disaster by asking me innocent (he thought) questions. For example, "How many times have you bungeed?" My sheepish reply, "Never," seemed to surprise him. Apparently, if one still resides in the Land of the Sane and Sensible, one does not climb Mount Everest before conquering a few smaller hills. Similarly, one does not bungee 350 feet without a couple of 50 or 100 foot leaps at the state fair or a beach resort under their belt. But, not missing a beat, he continued on with his instructions, all the while thinking: "Stupid old man! He will undoubtedly screw this up and get me fired!" Reading his mind, as I was sure I was doing, I silently prayed I would not meet his expectations. He mechanically wrapped several thick towels around my lower legs and hooked up the strap that would connect to the bungee cord itself.

Once harnessed to his satisfaction, I was instructed to "walk" to the plank (very "Pirates of the Carribean") that would serve as the launching point. Now, have you ever tried to walk with your feet and lower legs firmly united as one? As you would imagine, it is not easy, particularly when your pulse is already in the mid-hundreds and you are more than a bit giddy. But, I managed somehow to move (one could hardly call it "walking") and got to the platform which was extended about 6 feet out from the bridge proper. As I white-knuckled my grip on the rails, I was told that, following tradition, the crew and the other mentally-deranged tourists who would follow me in this insanity would count down from 5 and then I would be expected to jump when I heard the word "BUNGEE!" I thought of asking how many timeouts I had left so that I could stop the clock but my mouth wouldn’t work any better than my brain. I remember, vaguely, hearing "five, four, three, two, one - BUNGEE!!" and then feeling a gentle nudge to my lower back. It was, I assumed, time to meet my Maker.

At this critical juncture, "fight or flight" seeming inappropriate, I decided that if I were going to jump (and by now, there wasn’t a graceful way to avoid that) I was going to do it right. At least, the final glimpses of my earthly existence (yes, Virginia, they shoot a video of your jump to document just how stupid tourists are) would show me displaying good form. I did my best imitation of Superman and pushed off the platform into the early morning African air. In the 3 or 4 seconds of free-falling, I immediately thought: "Hey! This is not as bad as I thought!" I had my eyes open which, when you are as near-sighted as I am, doesn’t make that much difference in the view going down. But I could make out the river rapidly approaching my accelerating carcass. As I hurtled toward my demise, I would at least try and enjoy the view.

It was at this point in my last journey that I discovered the one fact about bungee jumping that no one ever tells you. Namely, that the falling is the easy part; stopping is the hard part. As the bungee cord grew taut, my downward momentum came to a screeching halt. In a reversal of Sir Isaac Newton (who, I am quite sure, never bungeed), I quickly learned that what goes down - attached to a bungee cord, at least - must go back up. And, at least as it felt to me, at the same un-Godly speed. I found myself rocketing skyward (and bridge-ward) at not merely an alarming speed but at a decidedly odd angle. As I flew back from whence I came, I felt my body assume a rather unnatural slant, nothing like the graceful figure I must have struck under the influence of gravity. I was sort of corkscrewing with my lower back bearing the brunt of the distortion. In a word, I was suddenly not simply frightened, I was also in no small amount of pain.

For the next couple of minutes, I became what can best be described as a "human yo-yo." Maybe it would be more precise to say a yo-yo being used by a drunk who was attempting to do the "rock the baby" trick. As I alternately fell and rebounded, I was jerked and twisted in every conceivable body position that can be imagined. If I could have voluntarily achieved these positions, I would have inspired several new chapters in the Karma Sutra.

The agony of being twisted like a pretzel finally ended with me coming to rest in the decidedly undignified state of hanging upside down about 100 feet or so below my starting point off the bridge. The final indignity was yet to come. Unlike smaller and shorter bungee sites, one is not simply lowered and released. At Victoria Falls, one remains hanging like a bat, until a crew member is lowered by cable to your position to recover your pale, quivering, discombobulated, jelly-like and completely disoriented remains.

In short order (the bridge crew were absolutely professional and efficient) I was joined by a reassuring young man who proceeded to mechanically maneuver me to an upright position and, then, harness himself to me. (At the time, I thought this a very brave thing to do) In short order, my new best friend and I were reeled back up to the bridge and the bindings were removed from my legs and I was freed. I was told to walk in a certain direction but, since I was in the throes of a rampaging adrenalin overdose my mouth was inoperable and my legs were not inclined to move at all, much less in any particular direction. I did manage to lurch forward a few steps and was escorted - it is all a bit of a haze from that point on - to the top of the bridge.

I had lived! I chose to sit down and put what remained of my mental capacities back together before re-crossing the bridge and the awaiting gauntlet of trinket peddlers. I eventually recovered the ability to speak and, with time, to move my facial muscles into a semblance of a smile. My courage returned lastly and, with it restored, I managed to stride through the peddlers with renewed vigor. I walked through "No Man’s Land" with confidence knowing that, if today was truly "my day," God would have taken me to my reward at the bridge. Putting me through that and then allowing me to be killed by criminals would, well, be just "un-God-like."

So, this was the day I went insane, little the worse for wear and having lived to tell the tale. We all, I suppose, need to let go now and then. I hasten to add that once was quite enough for me.